


Kyman Week 2020

by whitelightdududududu



Category: South Park
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Awkwardness, High School, Homosexuality, Jealousy, Love, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, One Shot Collection, Original Character(s), Out of Character, POV First Person, Pining, Romance, Sexual Content, Teen Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:40:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25997650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitelightdududududu/pseuds/whitelightdududududu
Summary: A collection of five one shots by berryblack-sh that were written in Russian for Kyman Week 2020. All the one shots are united by a common plot, but you can also read each one as a separate story without losing its meaning.
Relationships: Kyle Broflovski/Eric Cartman
Kudos: 26





	1. Party

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Kyman Week 2020](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/669508) by berryblack-sh. 



> A lot of thanks to Rav for beta reading!
> 
> The author of the original: https://berryblack-sh.tumblr.com/

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What did I even come here for? To stare at your ass? You smell like honey. For her? Do you smell for her? I hate you, but do I hate you as much as did before?

You punched me. You busted my lip. Because I said that you smelt like a girl.

And I said that, because Becky Freedman…

No. My thoughts are scattered, and I can’t put them back together. Why did I drink three cocktails one by one?

Because Becky Freedman… Because Becky Freedman…

Who the fuck is Becky Freedman?

And who am I? Hey, brain, wake up!

A Je… Je… Jew. Exactly.

Becky Freedman is a Jew, yeah. In your terms, a k...k…kike. A red-haired, green-eyed kike, and they say her face looks like mine. Astonishing similarities, and… You look at her like a dog in love. An obese dog. Ew.

Or not an obese one? And maybe not even a dog at all?

Lately, I’ve been noticing that shirts suit you. That the way they hug your creases is goddamn sexy. A couple of times, I almost called you by your name: “Eric…”

Luckily, I bit my tongue in time. The pain is sobering. You smell like honey, and honey is not associated with hatred. I’ve humiliated you to remind myself that I have to hate you. 

To hate you for the way you look at Becky Freedman. For the way you take her hand. For the way you joke with her – without any gibes and rudeness. And she laughs.

Becky is a Je…Je… Well, y’know. Just like me. You are supposed to hound her. But you dragged her to Token’s New Years party because: “It’ll make it easier for you, Beck, to fit in, to meet everyone”. 

What did I even come here for? To stare at your ass? You smell like honey. For her? Do you smell for her? I hate you, but do I hate you as much as did before?

The sea of booze is wandering inside of my head. I should stop concentrating on honey. My dick is throbbing so bad it hurts.

The walls are dancing, the floor is bouncing. Perhaps, it's better not to move for now. Tomorrow I'll have a hangover. Who am I? Je..Je...Jew. Why did I show up here?

"Kyle, dude, what's up with you? Are you okay?" 

I am Kyle, the Jew, and this is my friend Stan. Or someone else. I can't tell for sure.

I hope he'll understand my mumbling. I've just mumbled, haven't I? Maybe I should've kept silent?

Becky Freedman is a Jew. And you don't denigrate her. Why? Is it only about me? It hurts. It hurts when you hold her hand and smell like honey for her. For her, right? 

"Is there anything going on between you and Cartman?" Stan breaks through to my mind again. 

"Why would you say that?" 

Oh, not only can I mumble, but I can also sluggishly move my tongue. Even though the latter is insanely difficult.

"Between me and fa...fa..."

I told you, insanely difficult.

"...fatass..."

All right, that’s what I call you, I guess. 

"...There’s nothing between us, and there won't be anything. Wanna bet?" 

Three hundred bucks and Stan gives in to the thrill of wagering. It's a deal. 

You know what? From now on, it'll be easier for me to believe that I ... In short, to hate you. 

Cause I'm J...Je...Jew, that's it! In your terms, greedy Jew.

So I won't give away my money without a struggle.


	2. In the closet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was my senior year when Becky Freedman transferred to our high school... A red-headed, green-eyed, curly-haired Jewess. The Jewess at which Cartman looked with a dog's adoration from almost the first moment she came in and stood in front of the chalkboard being ready to briefly introduce herself.

They say if you meet your doppelgänger, you’ll die. Maybe it is not such a superstition, provided it implies death by hatred.

It was my senior year when Becky Freedman transferred to our high school. She came from somewhere in Connecticut with her father, a bankrupt businessman who had sold their house far below market value back there to get rid of the pressure from creditors.

A red-headed, green-eyed, curly-haired Jewess. The Jewess at which Cartman looked with a dog's adoration from almost the first moment she came in and stood in front of the chalkboard being ready to briefly introduce herself.

I repeat once again: red-headed, green-eyed, curly-haired, and besides, an ambitious straight-A-student. That is to say, me with the only distinction that fatass' nasty line about sand in the vagina could be true about her.

Or, should I say, it could've been true, but it had never been said to her face and even in her presence. All that had ever been heard from Cartman's mouth once she showed up nearby usually was:

"Becky, I've saved you a seat!"

"Becky, lemme help with calculations."

"Hey Beck, I've gone over the works of the photographer you mentioned on Thursday. Scrolled through the gallery for several hours. I completely share your impressions: he is a genius."

Becky, who was going to get a degree in art-design, once presented the classmates with her drawing that won a prestigious competition with the jury full of bigwigs in the art world. A wreath of yellow and red maple leaves impressed with the beauty and richness of colors as if it was photographed and not drawn by hand.

Cartman stated with admiration, "Your soul is beautiful since it creates things like this."

She has a beautiful soul. She has a soul in general, despite her hair color. Okay.

Maybe she also has beautiful eyes, huh? And not "like the ones of a rabid cat" or "of the swamp thing"?

"I know you don't really believe in the concept of the soul. But I can see your soul emitting light. Straight through your wonderful eyes."

What the hell. God, I'm gonna throw up.

Unbearable, unjust hypocrisy!

"What happened, man?" asked Stan, who complimented the fucking wreath like everyone else. "You look like you've swallowed a snake."

Yeah, and it's squirming inside me, hissing and spreading the venom that's burning my abdomen.

I could no longer resist the truth. Could no longer try to underestimate and not to notice.

I hated Becky Freedman.

"Fucking kike! Dirty bitch!"

"Dude, what's your problem?" Stan's astonished eyes outgrew his face. "Do you hear what you're saying? Have you and fatass got your minds switched?"

"I wish she died. Of AIDS."

"Apparently, you've switched. Or I've wound up in the parallel universe. Don't you know how I can get back?”

I brushed aside my friend's stupid theories. All I concentrated on at that moment was Becky's disappearance. All I wanted was for her to die. For her to evaporate. To go missing. To fade from the memory of the town, from the memory of the class, from the memory of Cartman.

With her eyes that were green, but at the same time – what a fucking surprise – wonderful.

With her beautiful soul that created masterpieces.

With her diabetes and forbidden love for chocolate-covered strawberry ice cream.

Because Cartman was supposed to hate me. To hate me and not exalt a copy of myself of the opposite gender. This was the order established from when we were kids, the nonnegotiable agreement we had to comply with. We were bosom enemies in the coordinate system of the two of us: Kyle Broflovski and Eric Theodore Cartman.

And then Becky came along and stole Eric to another system. The system I didn't have access to. The system where I wasn't wanted. The system where everything connected to me lost its meaning. It wouldn’t have been that bad if she had taken him away by force or intimidation or cunning, but he went after her himself. Voluntarily and happily, he accepted the new coordinates.

I couldn't forgive him.

I couldn't forgive her.

Parents, seeing what was happening to me, tried to console me sometimes:

"Dear, that's typical. When you meet your special person, old connections become less interesting."

I am an old connection. Thanks.

My brother agreed with our folks, "He's chosen: hoes before bros. So fuck friendship like that"

Fuck friendship... What the hell friendship is he talking about, for God's sake?

"We've never been friends, Ike"

"Oh, you don't fool me. I'm neither blind nor stupid. I remember too much. You engaged in any of his adventures even though you always grumbled it wouldn't end well. You got up in the middle of the night to go to catch Bigfoot with him. When he fell from the roof in summer when he was thirteen and laid unconscious for five days, you cried: 'What if he dies?'"

"Bullshit. I did not cry."

"Yes, you did. You cried and blew your nose into your own curls."

Yuck. That's disgusting.

"And when he went back to school, you lashed out at him, started beating him, and yelled: "It had to be me, I had to push you from up there! You had no right to fall yourself, you fat bastard! "You both were pulled apart with great difficulty. Mom was called to the school.

I remember that. I also remember how that fat bastard was lying under me, allowing me to rain down blows on his sides and only pretending to fight back while swearing.

A warm knot tied in my stomach, and I felt how the heart area was squeezed for some reason.

"Talk to him," Ike proposed, "say: 'Bro, I miss you so badly.' You need it."

Ha-ha. Very funny.

"Hey, the fact that two times a week, you ..."

"Four times."

"Damn, doesn't matter how many times! – ... you take your stupid psychology elective doesn't make you an expert.

“I didn’t claim to be an expert,” Ike bit the tip of his nail. “but one doesn't have to be an expert to see your feelings. They are as plain as the nose on your face, so they're visible to the naked eye.

"Get your visión tested!" I advised him and kicked this smug wannabe psychologist out of my room.

“You can shut me out,” I heard from the outside, “but you can't hide from yourself, and sooner or later, you'll have to talk to him, Kyle."

Ah, if only I had guessed that behind this calm statement, an unambiguous intention laid.

But I attributed this to foolish teenage complacency. And probably because I had this misperception in the first place, I swallowed the bait in the blink of an eye and got caught that easily.

“Please bring me my baseball cap,” Ike asked after breakfast one day. “Mom accidentally put it in your closet. And I'm just late for the practice."

Mom could really choose the wrong closet sometimes while compartmentalizing clothes after laundry since she was used to making the whole process less tedious by reading, which interfered with the neat implementation of the main task. The request was so casual and innocent that I smelled a rat only when the lock clicked shut behind me, and I got trapped among the shelves and hangers with my own clothes on.

And obviously, that was done not for just leaving me forcefully alone with my thoughts. Someone was sniffling by my side. Someone very particular. It was dark in the trap set up by my treacherous brother, but there was no way I could mistake the sound of breathing for anything else.

Long, husky inhales, impudent exhales – I could hardly name one more person that would breathe this way in a state of stress and anger.

Hardly anyone else could occupy all by themselves almost all enclosed space we were driven into by the will of the little Canadian brat. Hardly anyone else I know has such big bones – a pitiful cover for insatiable gluttony.

And that scent. God, even now he smells of cinnamon doughnuts.

The cinnamon fragrance mixed with honey – delicate floral hints. Recently, at Token’s New Years party, I, being in my cups, released the brake of sarcasm and commented:

“Nice smell, porky. You smell like a girl.”

The most unpleasant consequence of that drunk provocation wasn’t my lip busted with the fist but the realization that had pierced my light head. The realization that that was true. I liked that smell, even distorted by the sour odor of alcohol. Really liked. The smell made me giddy.

To my dismay, the head on my shoulders wasn’t the only head of mine enjoying it. So I was standing there with my back against the wall and with my lip swollen, going crazy from the throbbing in my pants. I was praying he wouldn’t notice.

Now, let’s return from my unacceptably lengthy digression to the main subject, to the main problem.

“Ike, is this some kind of joke?! Open up immediately!”

“Sure,” I didn’t see but imagined the warder-brother nodding accordingly to his words.

“Have a talk and I’ll let both of you out.”

“I have nothing to talk about with him! Stop messing around!”

“Oh yeah? Do you want me to make your confession easier and reveal “the secret of the film”?”

Fiery sparkles rolled up and down my spine. Five pictures of Cartman secretly taken on Polaroid. Of naked Cartman. I initially wanted to put them up all over the school to radically take revenge on him for all the humiliations at once, but then I calmed down. I Changed my mind. But foolishly forgot to feed the pictures into the shredder and throw them in the bin.

It’s hard to admit but in the evenings, after particularly psychologically and physically exhausting days, they – better than any meditation – helped to…relax. As crazy as it was to feel or comprehend that, Cartman’s naked corpulence stimulated my imagination harder than shame could restrain it. I fantasized how the honey scent got into his every plump crease of skin, and I, like a cat dazed from valerian, avidly licked all of them clean. Upward and downward. From neck to belly, from belly to neck. In my imagination, Cartman was in the delightful ecstasy over what I did with my tongue.

He begged me to keep going. Called my name. And, lately, – pretty seldom, though, as I forbade myself to be carried away by the erotic frenzy of this kind – he vowed that Becky didn’t mean a thing in his life.

Of course, it was no more than a play. A pastime, spicy and seasoned with a modicum of madness. Which of us, human beings, can boast about the absence of oddities in their temper without lying?

Probably, I once forgot to hide the snapshots in the closet and thus revealed my secret to the one who should have found it out by no means.

But today, right now…

The pictures are in the closet.

At the place where they always have been – on the top shelf, under the fur coat. I like to reach out for them tiptoeing.

They are in the closet I’m locked up in. Not alone. The model whose nudity I illegally captured with the help of my Polaroid is next to me. Once the traces of crime get exposed to the model’s eyes, I’ll be dead.

“Ike, dear, let me out,” I changed my negotiation tactics, “I’ll give you my safe deposit key. “

The tactics, however, reached an impasse.

“Nah, a ruthless warder can’t be tempted by the lavish bribe. I’ll come back in an hour. But whether you get the taste of freedom is solely up to you.”

“Ike! Ike! Ike! All right, the joke’s on me, that’s enough! Do you hear me?!”

Mmmoootherfucker… Fucking hoity-toity shrink!

“Stop yelling, Jew. You make my ears ring.“ 

Cartman opened his mouth for the first time since I started trying to persuade Ike to come to his senses and put an end to this absurdity, and at the drop of a hat, lashed out at my actions. You see, his ears are ringing. So come up with something better, you sissy. Ugh. I was so fired with anger, so the flames of rage couldn't be extinguished even by a team of firefighters.

“How have you gotten in here, fatass? How has he ensnared you?“ I let an imaginary stream of steam out of my nostrils. It made me feel better for a short while.

“He texted me he caught Becky and locked her in your closet so she couldn’t run away once again. Said to come over and take her away.”

What? Does he even understand what he’s saying, for Christ’s sake? I never doubted his insanity, but this is too much.

“Oh yeah, Ike’s got that obnoxious hobby,” I balled my hands, hoping to stifle a hysteric laugh now scratching my larynx. “Every morning, he abducts Freedman and puts her in my closet. If only he provided her with a nook in his own room because I’m sick to the back teeth of finding her in here and apologizing. The closet, after all, is a personal space. Why would someone cram whomever they want into it?”

No, black humor isn’t my forte today. And neither is self-control.

“Jesus, Cartman, I’m so tired of being shocked by what an idiot you are!”

“I’m sorry, but it’s you who’s not the sharpest tool in the shed.” Cartman rolled his eyes. “Becky is my cat. A very restless rascal. She fled the night before last.”

“Female cat? “ I felt like I was a talentless actor in a trashy play. “But you have the tomcat, don’t you?”

“I did have. He died three months ago. If you’d been checking my Instagram you, would’ve known.”

I hadn’t checked his Instagram ever since he posted the hundredth selfie with Freedman. I had already felt queasy due to the third one – and then suddenly the hundredth is posted. Within two days. No one in my place would have risked trying their own patience too far. 

But there are always the pangs of conscience:

“I’m sorry.”

“I was mourning badly.”

Don’t even try, I ain’t gonna apologize twice.

“And then Becky gave me a kitty from the shelter. Green-eyed and ginger, just like her.”

Oh, cuteness knows no bounds. Should I have already been sinking in tears from sweetness overdose? 

“I love her a lot.”

The cat or the girl? Or both at once?

“But she doesn’t want to live with me. Flees all the time, that ginger bitch. I’ve been restless, so I’ve fallen for your brother’s ploy. By the way, why does he insist so much we talk to each other?”

“Dunno, that bastard’s got a screw loose.”

I could not decide with whom I was angrier. With Ike who set up this absolutely fucked-up psychological experiment, or with my blockhead classmate who was tricked by the teenager? Perhaps, with the fugitive cat with that Jewish name I’m so sick of?

“Okay, I’m not gonna just sit on my ass doing nothing,” said Cartman suddenly rising to his feet and hitting the back of his head against the upper shell.

He outstretched his arms forward and pulled the door abruptly.

The closet swayed but its solid door was unyielding. Instead, the coat that kept my life-threatening secret fell down like a dishevelled fur bat. Making the nightmare come true, the Polaroid snapshots landed upon the coat and, right on cue, spread out in fan shape – come on, everyone, gather around, you can stare at them all you like!

The closet was jolted again by the expected flabbergasted exclamation:

“What the fuck is this?”

I set aside ten seconds of my remaining time for regretting I hadn’t drawn up a will. Five seconds for thinking of my relatives, but half a minute had passed, and I was breathing as before. 

“What the fuck is this, I’m asking you?! Are you deaf, jew?” Cartman repeated menacingly.

I’m not deaf, unfortunately. I answered, barely moving my numb tongue:

“You.”

“I see this is not Ryan Gosling! Why do you need me naked, for fuck’s sake?”

Ironically, but I need you for the sake of fuck, indeed. No. No. I can’t say this. I have to spin a more plausible yarn. Something that would fit well into the convoluted context of our relationship and would raze all the suspicions to the ground.

“I… I…”

Come on, think, you have to come up with something solid as you are the lawyer’s son!

“I jerk off to you!”

It just came out. Against my will.

“What do you mean?” Cartman was shifting his shocked gaze from me to the snapshots and back. “What do you mean… Jerk off?”

“Well,” a nervous chill crept down my back resounding in an abrupt dry snigger, “with my right hand. More rarely with the left. Just like you do to Becky.”

Cartman put the balls of his thumbs to his temples and took a deep breath.

“I don’t jerk off to Becky.”

Yeah, yeah, of course, you don’t and I don’t have diabetes.

“We’re just friends.”

I’m not falling for this.

“If you want to know…”

I don’t want to know!

“… we got completely drunk once and I started fondling her…”

Oh, for God’s sake, shut up!

“I thought I’d feel something special, but when she sighed and moaned…”

Now I am definitely deaf. I hear nothing. Nothing.

“…I dreamed of you.”

“What?”

Wow, how gracefully my lower jaw looks lying on the left side of the fan of photos.

“Yes. I imagined you. Your lips, your hands. Until I heard a quiet ‘I’m not Kyle, Eric. I’m Becky’ ”

Yeeeeesh…

“That was awkward.”

“Yeah,“ I agreed. “Nothing to be jealous for.”

The exchange of revelations hung in the silent air trembling with sparkling emotions. This silence gave me strength. Strength to let the reckless words escape my lips and soar up:

“You smell wonderful.”

“I know,” for some reason, Cartman whispered. “Like a girl, yeah.”

“No,“ we were a few inches apart from each other, and I came right up to him so that our knees touched, “no, you smell like desire.”

Long-standing, clandestine, repudiated, shameful.

Fervent and delightful.

“Want me to tell you what I fantasized about you?”

I will tell and show.

I put my hand around his cock in the trousers. Wrapped my fingers around. Began moving my hand. Slowly, playfully, lusciously. Relishing how it was getting harder under the cloth.

Cartman threw back his head.

“Aahh… Kahl…”

My Cartman. Mine. My Eric.

So, this is what possession is like.

I slowly lick his earlobe.

“Want to touch me?”

Mine. Mine. My Eric is sobbing – his inhale cracks as I squeeze his shaft at the right moment.

“Yeaaaah. Let me do it. Please.”

Eric Cartman says “please”. To me. To the soulless monster. To the swamp thing.

“You wanna touch me? Me, the filthy, daywalking jew?”

“I wanna. I wanna, Kahl. Damn. What are you doing?” words are drawled into a prolonged growl. “I’m cumming…”

“So, a fine jew you’ve got, huh?”

“The jew is fucking incredible. Please.”

Blood is burning, seething, ringing with endorphins.

Suck it, Becky Freedman. 

***

“Sweetie lovely kitty, you’re back!”

“Purr!”

“Do you love me? You’re not gonna run away from me, right?”

“Purr!”

“Aw, come here I’ll give you a hug. And you know what? Let’s rename you to Kyla.”


End file.
